


Good Omens Sneak Peeks

by Jezunya



Series: Sneak Peeks [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Six Sentence Sunday, Sneak Peeks, WIP Wednesday, fic excerpts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2020-11-22 13:26:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20874950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jezunya/pseuds/Jezunya
Summary: Snippets from the Good Omens fics I'm working on.





	1. ATWFD 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit from a multichapter fic in which things go off the rails just after the bodyswap…

Crowley steps out of the tower of flames, and the Archangels all scurry back several more feet, looking ready to bolt just in case he spits hellfire at them again. He adjusts his cufflinks, casual as you please, or rather, casual as _ Aziraphale _ would please, straight-backed and prim. 

"You— You should leave," Gabriel chokes out, violet eyes wide. Behind him, Crowley is vaguely aware of the little demon who'd brought up the hellfire – one of Hastur's many indistinguishable minions that the duke so enjoys discorporating whenever they fail to serve him perfectly – hastily shoving the flames back into their case and making a break for the lifts.

"Oh, really?" Crowley replies, and thinks he does a rather magnificent job of capturing that cool, overly polite tone of voice that Aziraphale adopts when he's especially annoyed. He checks his pocket watch briefly before snapping it closed once more and tucking it away, then pins the angels with a look that is equal parts bored and put out: Disapproving School Master Thinking About Just What A Disappointment You Are, as Crowley had once dubbed it. "You did go through ever so much trouble to get me here, after all."

He watches Gabriel's adam's-apple bob as he swallows, while Uriel quivers from head to foot beside him and Sandalphon gapes like an especially concussed fish.

"_Leave,_" Gabriel repeats, fear beginning to turn to disgust, to frustration. "And— And don't come back!"

Crowley sniffs daintily, adjusts his waistcoat, and, turning towards the exit, says, "I wasn't terribly keen on the idea of visiting again, anyway."

He does _ not _ saunter out of there, though he does keep his head held high and his strides purposeful – but also unhurried. Unbothered. Entirely at ease and unafraid of anything they might try to do to him. After all, if he – or rather, Aziraphale – is an angel who is immune to hellfire, what does he possibly have left to fear?

Well, maybe one thing, but that was half the reason Crowley had come in Aziraphale's place, anyway: they couldn't very well make him Fall _ again_, could they? He refuses to let his gaze stray out through the many high windows or, worse, down to the pearly white cloud-and-stardust molecules that make up the floor here. Something like a strong pull of gravity tries to tug at him, tries to sink him straight through that ethereal floor, but he's shrouded in enough of Aziraphale's essence that it can't get a grip on him. The old vertigo is locked away along with the pain of walking on so much holy matter, what should have been searing, unendurable agony instead settling as an ache deep in his bones.

"We'll have to confer with the Metatron," Uriel is saying quietly behind him, but then Crowley is in the lift, and the doors are closing, and he's going down, down down down, back to Earth, and then he is _ free_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted several weeks ago on [my tumblr](https://jezunya.tumblr.com/post/186925484234/slightly-more-than-six-sentences-but-eh)


	2. ATWFD 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is from the same fic as the previous chapter, in which things start to go differently just after the bodyswap/trials, a little further on.
> 
> This one is actually new today, and can be found on tumblr [here](https://jezunya.tumblr.com/post/188101561054/wip-wednesday).

"Hullo," Aziraphale croaks, smiling weakly as Crowley reaches him. It looks wrong on his face, one of Aziraphale's soft, soppy smiles on a structure much more fitted to smirking or snarling. 

"Did you jusst get back?" Crowley asks, unable to help the slight hiss in his voice – Aziraphale is here, they're both alive and whole, it was just a little delay, what's a few hours to six millennia and an averted apocalypse, so the panic attack still trying to claw its way up his throat can _ sod the fuck off. _

"Mm," Aziraphale nods, Crowley's sunglasses slipping down his nose as he does so. He doesn't move to push them back up, leaving his yellow snake eyes – fully yellow, not just the irises, Crowley can't help noticing – out in the open where any passersby might see them. Crowley frowns, takes a step closer.

"Alright?" he asks, and then frowns more at the slight sheen of sweat on Aziraphale's forehead and the way he tries and seemingly fails to push away from the wall. But that… that doesn't mean anything, necessarily. They've both had incredibly long days, a long week, long_ eleven years_. Aziraphale is probably just tired, and Crowley is the last person to ever begrudge someone the need for a nap.

Aziraphale nods again, somehow more abstractedly than before. "No, yes… It all went rather… swimmingly," he says, and the smile he cracks at that comment – the smile that means he's particularly pleased with a pun and is already anticipating Crowley's responding groan – is all the confirmation he needs that their earlier suspicions had been right: they had tried to use holy water on him, same as Crowley had used on Ligur.

But still Aziraphale doesn't straighten away from the wall, and his hand, when he finally raises it to right his sunglasses, is visibly trembling.

"Well,” Crowley says. The panic doesn't recede so much as crystalize, a sensation he's grown familiar with over the centuries: Aziraphale needs him, and Crowley is in a position to help him. This, he can do. Has done, time and again. Realizing the angel had been dragged off to the Bastille was harrowing, but appearing in his cell, freezing time, lazily needling him about this latest scrape he'd got himself into, all of that brought with it a sense of perfect calm. So too with redirecting a German bomber and saving a pile of books – by any reasonable measure, the consecrated ground burning his feet should have sapped Crowley's attention away such that he couldn't work any miracles, and yet—

And yet Aziraphale had needed him, Aziraphale _ needs _ him, and that's as good as an autopilot switch as far as Crowley's concerned.


	3. ATWFD 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit more from the same fic in which things go off the rails after their body switch in ep6

"Shit, shit, shit,” he chants, and reaches out with more senses than those confined to the mortal plane.

"Hmm?" Aziraphale asks, though he doesn't meet Crowley's eye, his gaze instead drifting somewhere around the demon's midsection.

"Hellfire," Crowley says, eyes and infernal magic scanning over the angel, searching, searching for the slightest trace, the tiniest speck. "They— They had— They tried to use—" The smell of burnt pages rises up around him, stinging in his throat, his eyes. "They tried to kill you, angel." And now, Crowley may have brought that hellfire back with him, may have unwittingly transferred it over when they switched back, an asymptomatic carrier spreading a deadly plague that's now burning the angel from the inside out.

But if Crowley can find it, he can draw it out, bend it to his will, extinguish it for good. He's a demon after all, the Serpent of fucking Eden, and he will _ not _ see everything he's fought for destroyed by _ happenstance_.

"Dearest, we knew they would," Aziraphale says softly, his expression pinched with discomfort and yet still so gentle as he looks up at Crowley. It takes a second or two to remember what Aziraphale's responding to, and then several more seconds to process that— that—

Dear_est?! _

Well, that's… new.


	4. IWTFY 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For this WIP Wednesday, here's a bit from a post-apocalypse romcom fic I've been picking away at for the last few months.

Aziraphale glances up at him, and the small smile spreading across his features makes Crowley wonder if the angel hears the same promise there as he does: tomorrow, not 'I'll see you when I see you,' not in a few months, a few years, a few decades, not 'Oh well I've got this assignment so I really don't know if—' _Tomorrow_.

Crowley would, of course, stay right here, forever, if he could. But Aziraphale needs his space, as always. And Crowley needs… Well. It's fine, it's all perfectly fine, better than anything they've ever had before. And besides, there's something delicious about this thing he's been doing more and more since the Notpocalypse: going away for a bit, even before Aziraphale can get in a snit and kick him out, just so he can come back again. Like a comet swinging far and away just to come speeding back again, blazing bright and forever caught in this orbit, in the gravitational pull of one fussy angel. 

It shouldn't feel so good, but that doesn't stop the fact that it _does_. A little bit of denying himself just for the sharp, sweet anticipation of seeing Aziraphale again in what really amounts to only a few hours in the grand scheme of things. He's spent the last six thousand fucking _years_ stealing whatever little snatches of time he can with the angel, and spent half that time worrying that one of them is going to be abruptly sent halfway around the globe, that it'll be years and years until he can come up with a good excuse to run into Aziraphale again. Or, worse, that Above and Below will see right through their little Arrangement, right through to what Crowley really desires in a heart that's supposed to be so blackened as to be beyond such things. That there won't be a tomorrow for one – or both – of them.

Now, he can say _tomorrow_ and mean it.


	5. TADOIYP Ch14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is an excerpt from an upcoming chapter of _Than Are Dreamt Of In Your Philosophy_ \- but beware of spoilers through Ch 13 if you haven't read any of this one yet!

“Feeling better?” Crowley asks, eyeing Aziraphale warily with hands at the ready to catch him should he start to wobble again.

“Much,” Aziraphale assures him, folding the tartan blanket and laying it across the back of the sofa. Then he drops one hand to Crowley’s shoulder and says with a smile, fingers squeezing lightly through his blazer, “You do take such good care of me, my dear.” And then he breezes past, leaving Crowley a blushing, sputtering wreck in his wake.

“What exactly is Zedika talking to Anra about?” he demands once he gets his vocal chords to behave again, trailing after Aziraphale into the main room of the shop.

“About accompanying them here tomorrow,” comes Aziraphale’s reply, drifting back through the stacks towards Crowley. He scowls, stalking forward to catch up with the angel.

“You what now?”

Aziraphale is studying an absolutely massive, antique keyring in his hands when Crowley spots him, the metal ring nearly entirely filled with keys of varying designs and ages. He’s standing in front of a glass display cabinet that’s so clouded up with dust Crowley can barely make out the shape of the books within, much less read any titles.

“Angel,” he growls, while Aziraphale finally selects an old brass key and blithely ignores him. “Why’ve you invited over the very people who are trying to destroy us?”

Aziraphale gives a happy little hum as he unlocks the cabinet, and says, “I thought it might be useful to study them, up close, where we have the— Hm, what is that phrase? The home turf advantage?”


End file.
